You Don't Own Me
by Maddie Rose
Summary: Arya Stark has finally been found and brought before King Joffrey...and the years have changed her. Joffrey has always got what he wants, and now he wants Arya...
1. I'm Not Afraid Of You

**You Don't Own Me**

**A/N: Okay, so I've seen the first five or so episodes of Game of Thrones – and quickly found myself addicted! Now, I haven't read the books, but I have been reliably informed of Joffrey's fate. This is a bit of an AU, I guess. For the purposes of this fic, Joffrey is nineteen, Sansa is eighteen and Arya is sixteen. Hope you enjoy! One-shot for now.**

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><p>King Joffrey Baratheon sat on the Iron Throne with his chin resting on his hand. The expression on his face was one of utter boredom. Since his father's death and subsequent coronation five years ago, Joffrey had assumed that being king meant that he got to do whatever he wanted. Unfortunately, he had quickly been proven wrong. Joffrey's life had quickly been drained to a dull, colourless grey.<p>

His mother, Cersei, had acted as his advisor. She had told him the brutal truth: if he did not live up the people's expectation as king, he would be killed just as Aerys Targaryen was. So Joffrey listened to his mother…until he was seventeen and started to get the knack of things, making decisions for himself. Then he told Cersei to shut up or he would shut her up. She was smart enough to know what that meant.

At his mother's insistence, Joffrey had selected his uncle Jaime as his Hand. Jaime knew well enough what to do without Joffrey's advice. Dragging out those who were disloyal was no hard task for a man like Jaime.

The problem was, life as the king was so terribly boring. The public executions, which Joffrey found thoroughly entertaining, were all too scarce nowadays. Tournaments only occurred when Cersei and Jaime saw fit to put their heads together and organize one.

Even the throne room was a dark, dreary place. The only reason Joffrey spent so much time there was because he enjoyed sitting on the Iron Throne, revelling in the fact that he was king. Of course, it didn't exactly mean much, but he was still king nonetheless.

There were hardly any prisoners to torture and those who were still alive in the dungeons were not worth their effort in their various states of insanity. Anyone who spoke up against King Joffrey was punished severely.

Perhaps the most restrictive force on Joffrey's life was his wife, Sansa. She had been so very besotted with him when they were younger, but now she knew all about Joffrey's sadistic tendencies and violent behaviour. Currently pregnant and sullen, Sansa was not a very interesting character in Joffrey's life. Perhaps once she'd given birth to their child, he'd kill her…it was a very appealing notion. She was most annoying.

"Your Majesty," Jaime entered the throne room, accompanied by several members of the Kingsguard…and half-dragging a dark-haired girl in with him. "We have found someone that has been missing for quite some time. We thought her dead."

Jaime threw the girl unceremoniously at Joffrey's feet. She hit the stone floor with complaint and when she raised her head to glower at the king with murderous hatred, it was those bright blue eyes that identified her. Clad in the clothing of a peasant, this was Arya Stark. Smirking down at her, Joffrey waved a careless hand towards Jaime and the Kingsguard.

"Leave us. I will deal with her accordingly."

Jaime inclined his head and marched out of the room, as did the others. Joffrey waited for a few moments before the clattering of swords and boots had faded to nothing but in echo in the corridors. He stood, clasping his hands behind his back as he observed Arya, who had clambered to her feet and wiped blood away from her lip.

The last time he had seen Arya Stark, she had been a pestilent eleven-year-old brat. She had escaped five years ago when Joffrey had authorised the execution of her father, Eddard Stark. In fact Arya had been missing for such a long time that Joffrey had presumed her dead. Even Sansa had not believed her younger sister would still be alive.

"So." Joffrey paced around Arya, making her feel as though he was the predator and she was the prey – which in essence was the truth. "You survived."

His cold blue eyes roved lazily up and down her slender frame, inspecting the changes five years had rendered. A young woman of sixteen, Arya could never be mistaken for a boy now. She had a woman's curves and as Joffrey inspected her defiant face, there was no doubting that she was beautiful, perhaps even more beautiful than Sansa.

"Are you disappointed?" she shot at him, her hands balling into fists, "I would have thought you would be delighted at getting to kill me yourself."

She had not changed from when they had been young. Arya had always been outspoken then and it would appear that fact had not changed. Joffrey still remembered, with growing anger, when Arya had taken a swipe at him for hurting the butcher's boy, how her direwolf had attacked him. He had not yet had retribution for that – and the promise of revenge tasted sweet on his lips.

"Oh, I'm not going to kill you, Arya…not yet."

Arya's sharp eyes remained on him the whole time as he paced around her. There was only anger and defiance in her expression. There was no fear of him, no fear of what he was capable of inflicting upon her. But that was alright…Joffrey was certain that he would make her afraid yet.

"Should you not bow?" Joffrey questioned, turning to face her, his eyes horribly cold and empty and his lips curved into a barbed-wire smile of amusement. "I am, after all, your king."

Arya's response was to laugh mirthlessly and spit at Joffrey's feet. "You will _never _be my king."

Joffrey wondered if she understood just how dangerous a game she was playing. Arya was about to step over a line that could earn her certain death. Yet for some reason, Joffrey did not want to kill her yet. First of all, he would stamp out her spirit. First of all, he would break her.

Joffrey took a step forward and backhanded Arya across the face. No sound escaped her mouth, which he found strange. Her own sister cried and pleaded whenever Joffrey abused her in such a manner. Arya's head cracked back with the force of the blow, but there was still that same fire in her eyes when she looked at him again.

"I said," he hissed, "_Bow_."

Arya observed Joffrey quite calmly. This girl infuriated Joffrey. While grown men would be reduced to weeping wrecks, pleading for his mercy, Arya Stark stood before him and dared to defy him, dared although it might mean her death.

"You don't own me," she told him.

Joffrey's booted feet clacked across the stone floor towards Arya. She took one wary step back after another, until something solid hit her heel and she realized that she had backed up into the wall. Joffrey smirked in triumph and placed his arms either side of her head, effectively trapping her.

"Not yet. But how do you think you stand a chance, Arya? Your sister is my wife, your brothers are cowering in the north and your father is dead."

Arya rolled her eyes in disgust and attempted to turn her head, but Joffrey gripped her chin and forced her to look him in the eye. There was just something so horribly empty about him, so terrifying about the cruel smile that played about his lips.

Joffrey was frustrated and yet intrigued. He had always been spoilt when he was younger, getting what he wanted. Now what he wanted, to his utter astonishment, was Arya Stark. He enjoyed the way she pushed back and although he reluctantly admired her spirit, he would relish breaking it.

"I'm not afraid of you," Arya snarled at him, her eyes flaming with rage, "You might have torn apart my family, but I know _exactly _what you're like. Sansa couldn't see it, but I always did. You can throw around your weight all you want and use your power as king…but you're still a cowardly little boy underneath it all."

Joffrey bared his teeth at the force of her words. How dare she speak to him in such a manner! He was the king, dammit, and he would make her show respect. Joffrey's hand moved down to grip Arya by the throat and she grimaced but still said nothing.

"I could hurt you," he spat at her, gripping her throat even tighter so that Arya struggled piteously in his grasp and clawed at his arm, attempting to pry him off, unable to breathe. "I could _kill _you with my bare hands. Does that not frighten you?"

Arya laughed, a hoarse sound but a laugh nonetheless. "I will never fear you, because I know what you're capable of."

Joffrey wanted to vent his anger, but he knew better than that. If Arya could play the calm card, then so could he. His hand relaxed around Arya's throat, but he did not release her. With his free hand, he traced a finger down Arya's cheek and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. He smirked as her eyes widened in shock.

"Do you fear me _now_?"

Arya's eyes told Joffrey what her mouth would not. She did fear him, because this was Joffrey behaving in a way in which Arya did not comprehend. He was dangerous and now she wasn't sure what he was capable of. Joffrey reached out to touch her face again, but Arya smacked his hand away with sudden violence.

"Don't _touch_ me."

"Or what?" demanded Joffrey, grabbing her forcefully by the upper arms and slamming her into the wall so hard that her head bounced and she winced. He laughed in an almost deranged manner. "Or what, Arya Stark? What power do you hold over the king? Your father thought he had the power to create change. Do you remember what happened to your father?"

He was deliberately taunting her now. Arya felt the tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, but refused to let them spill. She was strong now. She would not let Joffrey have control over her. Instead she narrowed her eyes and looked brazenly up at him.

"What do you want?" she whispered, genuinely unsure. If Joffrey wanted her dead, he would have killed her as he had her father. If he wanted her tortured, he would have got Jaime to toss her in the dungeons.

"Power," Joffrey replied, his grip tightening like a vice around each of Arya's arms, "Power that you will grant me, Arya, for I am your king. Power that comes from having the loyalty of the people."

"You expect me to bow down before you as my father did before yours?" Arya asked incredulously, "Respect must be earned. That seems to be something you haven't learned yet."

A muscle twitched in Joffrey's cheek and he raised a hand as if to slap her, but Arya was quicker. She curled her hand into a fist and punched him in the face, an offense that would no doubt cost her life. Yet somehow, she no longer cared. Joffrey stumbled backwards and Arya broke free of him, knowing there was nowhere she could run, nowhere she could be safe…because Joffrey would find her.

"You little bitch," Joffrey spat at her, marching towards her. Arya stood her ground, knowing that this was different from when they were young. Joffrey now stood at nearly six feet tall, towering over her. She braced herself for his violent vengeance. "You will pay dearly for that."

Joffrey grabbed Arya and threw her to the ground. He was angry, because he didn't want whinging, moping Sansa, but her younger sister. He wanted Arya and he shouldn't. Of course Joffrey knew it was perfectly feasible for him to go to the brothels if he wanted pleasure…but he wanted someone with fire, someone who would fight back. That way, he would enjoy breaking them even more.

Joffrey crouched down beside Arya. She was dazed and she struggled to get up, but Joffrey grab a handful of her dark hair and forced her back down. She gritted her teeth and kicked at him, but he swung his head out of the way just in time.

"Let go of me," Arya insisted, sounding on the verge of tears. "Throw me in the dungeons or kill me…but I've had enough of your sick games. You're just like your mother."

Joffrey chuckled darkly at that. "My mother once told me if I wanted to fuck painted whores, I would fuck painted whores, and if I wanted to lie with noble virgins, so be it. But I don't want them. I don't even want your sister Sansa. It's _you_, Arya. I don't know why, but it is you I want."

"It's me you're not going to get," Arya quipped.

Joffrey sneered as he pulled her to her feet, the clacking footsteps alerting him to the return of Jaime and several other soldiers. He dragged Arya over to Jaime by the hair and shoved her unceremoniously from him.

"Lock her up," Joffrey instructed, then he turned his attention to Arya, "_You _would do best to think on what I have said. Never fear, Arya; you haven't seen the last of me. When I come to you next, I expect you to have made a decision."

Arya was puzzled as to exactly what Joffrey meant, but she shook her head vigorously.

"I think I'll be content to rot in my cell, _your Majesty._"


	2. Get Your Hands Off Me

**A/N: Okay, well this WAS just going to be a one-shot…but now I'm not really sure where it's going. I'd just like to thank all of you for your reviews! I was never expecting that much feedback! I hope you all enjoy this chapter. Also, opinions: how intense do you really want this to get? Ooh and I'm not sure if any of you have heard "Snow White Queen" by Evanescence, but it totally fits this chapter.**

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><p>Arya Stark was not bound by chains – at least not in the physical sense. Instead she felt claustrophobic at the fact that there was truly no escape for her this time. Her lack of liberty was the heaviest chain of all, and it weighed down upon her like the might of Westeros itself.<p>

She didn't fear for herself. It was her sister Sansa who might now suffer for her impudence towards Joffrey…she would never bring herself to think of him as the king. He would never be _her _king. Her lip curled in disgust at the very notion. That insane, monstrous boy thought that he was a king? Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

The dungeon door opened with a rattle and Arya scampered backwards, pressing herself against the far wall. She had only been in her cell a matter of days, yet she already knew the consequences of attempting to claw at the guards when they brought her food or water. However, when Arya heard the clacking of heeled boots on stone, a thrill of horror ran down her spine. That definitely was not a guard.

"I wish to speak with Arya Stark alone." It didn't surprise her to hear the cold and commanding tone of Joffrey Baratheon. "I will summon you once I am finished here. The key, if you please."

There was a jingling sound as the guard passed Joffrey the key and unbidden, an idea formed in Arya's mind. Suppressing a smile, she watched with a steady gaze as Joffrey's blond head bobbed into view in the dim lighting. He twisted the key and the lock sprang open – and that was when Arya attacked.

Baring her teeth in savage rage, she charged at Joffrey and swept her foot out, catching him around the ankles and making him buckle and crash to the ground. Arya took the opportunity while she had it, livid hatred shining out from her blue eyes as she pinned him down with her knee on his chest. She hit him again and again, unlike the blood ran in crimson rivulets from his nose and mouth.

Arya had expected him to squeal and beg her to stop, like the coward he had been as a child. But for some reason, she felt apprehensive when he laughed weakly, spitting out blood. He didn't try and stop her. She didn't understand him. Arya had thought she had known everything about Joffrey…but perhaps she had been wrong.

"Hit me again," Joffrey dared, toying with her, "Then we shall see what happens to your dear sister Sansa. I tire of her already and I assure you, the excuse to be rid of her will be a welcome one indeed."

Arya screamed a thousand curses in her mind. She removed her knee from Joffrey's chest and that was all it took. Joffrey threw her down so that their positions were reversed. He grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head and despite her struggling, he was stronger than she'd expected.

"Don't you _touch_ my sister," Arya spat at him as he used his free hand to wipe away the blood on his face, grinning like a madman the whole time.

"Oh, I've already done more than touched her. She's pregnant, didn't you know? Fortunately for her, I won't risk losing my heir and so I can't do anything about her irritating existence quite yet. But once the child is born? I will have no further need of Sansa."

He was a monster. He was a monster, and she hated him. Then Joffrey bent down so that his mouth was right beside Arya's ear. She was repulsed by his close proximity…far too close. She could feel the heat of his breath on her neck and it disturbed her.

"You know what, Arya? I think you would rather like it when I killed her. You have always found Sansa to be a bother. Don't lie and say you haven't."

Arya bit down on her lip, hard. What Joffrey implied was heinous. Arya would never wish her own sister dead. Sansa had been annoying, yes…but not to that extremity. Finally, Joffrey's weight was removed from her and for one relieved moment, Arya thought he might be leaving. Instead he just tilted his head to the side and offered her one of his heartless smiles.

"You could be mine. Despite your unkempt, filthy appearance, you still have the blood of a Stark…and the fire of…well, I don't quite know. But you far more interesting than Sansa. The court would not object if I took you as my wife."

Arya sneered at Joffrey. She was not afraid of _him, _but the fact that he had the power to do what he wished without question.

"I would kill myself first."

Joffrey raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Is that so? What if I said that I would keep your sister alive? I could simply annul the marriage."

Arya simply didn't understand. Why was Joffrey so determined that she would belong to him? Why didn't he just torture her or kill her and get it over with? She knew the answer to that question, deep in the darkest recesses of her being. She just didn't want to acknowledge it.

"Why?" she asked, her voice quiet but fierce, "Why is it me? You could have any other woman…"

Joffrey offered her a smug smile. "That's precisely my point. I could have any other woman. But I don't _want _any other woman…I want you and I shall have you, Arya, whether by your will or not. I want you because you don't shatter like a china doll…and that makes me curious what it might take to truly break you."

Joffrey swiped his hand across his face again, frowning at the scarlet that stained his hand. He looked across at Arya with something dangerous in his ice-cold eyes.

"I think you owe me compensation. You have attacked the king and that is not something to be taken lightly. We wouldn't want anyone to come to harm, would we?"

Arya loathed him for implying that he would hurt Sansa, and disgusted at herself that she could not fight him on this one. Fighting was something Arya knew, something she breathed. It was a tentative peace and a reluctant stalemate that made her wary.

"What do you want from me now, Joffrey?" Arya practically spat the words.

Joffrey just beckoned. "Come here."

Dread twisting at her stomach and a sick taste in her mouth, Arya approached him cautiously. When she was within reach, Joffrey lunged forward, grabbing a handful of her dark hair and twisting painfully, forcing her to move even closer.

"Tell me, Arya…have you ever been kissed?"

No, he wouldn't be so cruel…and yet he would, because he was Joffrey. Arya was struggling to keep herself together as she shook her head vigorously, gulping as he wrapped an arm around her slim waist, pressing her possessively to him.

Arya wanted to hurt him, so badly…but she was frozen in fear. It was like suddenly, she wasn't Arya anymore. She was just a limp doll in the king's obsessive grasp. She felt sick. This was just twisted and wrong. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Arya had been prepared for Joffrey to hurt her, but not do this. Not play these revolting mind games.

"Is that a no?" Joffrey chuckled as his arm tightened around Arya and she averted her eyes, wanting to pretend she was anywhere but where she was. "Such an innocent. For a girl who is so worldly in some ways, you are quite naïve in others."

"Get your hands off me," Arya whispered, but the fight had completely left her.

Joffrey gave a wolfish smile of triumph. "Never."

Then he moved as quickly as a striking snake, his lips colliding with hers. Arya wanted to pull away, but with Joffrey's arm around her waist, that option was prevented. Instead she could only swallow down her disgust as Joffrey kissed her forcefully. A kiss was supposed to be romantic and sweet…yet Joffrey had made it something full of hate and – in his case, never hers – lust. It wasn't supposed to be this way.

Arya was close to tears as Joffrey deepened the kiss. It was the most horrible moment in her life – no, second most horrible. The most horrible had been seeing her father killed. Now the heartless man who had ordered his execution stood here with lips pressed against hers and his arm around her like the tightest of chains.

Arya broke free and shoved Joffrey away from her, unable to take it anymore. She was trying not to hyperventilate, fighting the urge to assault the king once again. She could kill him with her bare hands…yet she knew what the consequences might be. Then she whirled around to face him, anger and hatred fuelling her fire.

"Stop it!" she screamed at him, sounding like the eleven-year-old she had once been but no longer caring, "Just stop it! I am _sick _of your horrible games!"

Joffrey lips curved into a victorious smile. Finally, he was beginning to see the chinks in Arya's armour. She was beginning to crack. The threat of Sansa loomed ominously over her head and as long as it lingered, Arya would not deny him _anything…_or would she? Very soon, the time would come where he would test what was stronger: Arya's loyalty to her family, or her sense of self-preservation.

"You're afraid of me," Joffrey hissed the words with sheer delight, "Oh, Arya. It would seem that a kiss affects you far more than any torture ever could…"

"Stop. It." Tears glittered brightly in Arya's eyes, but she dared not let them fall. She would not let him see her cry. She would not give him that satisfaction when he had enough already. For a few moments she thought Joffrey would stay just to mock her even more, but then he was slamming the cell door closed and locking it behind him.

"Until next time."

It was both a promise and a threat. Only when she was certain that Joffrey was gone did Arya press her back against the wall and try to come to terms with what had just happened. Joffrey had kissed her. Why would he do that? She didn't understand. She knew he wanted to torment her, but why had he kissed her to accomplish that?

_I will never belong to him,_ Arya told herself furiously as she threw herself down on the cot and let the tears roll down her face, _Never._


	3. That Night He Caged Her

**A/N: Hello there, my dear readers! So, I felt that this was…incomplete. Here I have one final part, which happens to be extremely AU. I hope you can forgive me for making this totally AU. Anyway, this chapter is probably the darkest, but I'm not sure if it merits an M rating. I would also be forever grateful if you would check out my Robb/OC fic, Jar of Hearts, and review.**

**A huge thanks to: Social Resistance, unforgiveable, -Babyeex.X, Anon, hoppnhorn, LittleMonsterStick, TheFamouslyUnfamousAuthor, Lord Queen, booksroock, Lynne Harrow, WickedWriteroftheWest, Hellzz-on-Earth, LauraNeatO, babygurl1944, Callista252, kimi492, 1stDeathAnniversary, moomolie1709, WhereDidYouGo, vicky and LadynahEireann. You guys have all been extremely awesome and I hope this last chapter meets your expectations.**

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><p>Arya had quickly come to realize that she was a prisoner within herself. Even if she had the chance to attack Joffrey, she could not take it. The threat of Sansa's death loomed over Arya's head. She had already lost too much, and she would not risk losing her sister. Now, she endured the internal struggle inside herself in silence. Joffrey had left her alone for several days, but he would be back. He enjoyed tormenting Arya too much to stay away, especially when they both knew why she would no longer fight back.<p>

It was hard to tell night from day in the cursed darkness. So when the key jingled in the lock like a warning bell, Arya prepared to wince at the daylight that streamed in – only she was met only with the soft glow of a torch. Somewhat relieved, Arya tensed, listening as the intruder moved towards her cell. Her shoulders dropped when she realized that it was not Joffrey, yet she was puzzled when the guard unlocked her cell door. It opened with a screech of protest.

Arya blinked. "What's happening?"

"You're to be taken to his Majesty." The guard averted his eyes and his face was unreadable. "It would be best that you did not put up a fight."

The implications were too much. Arya forgot how to breathe as the guard led her from the dungeons with an iron grip around her arm. Instead of Joffrey coming to her, she was going to Joffrey? Her terrified mind struggled to make sense of what exactly this might mean.

They passed through a myriad of corridors. The encroaching darkness and the fact that they were the only people in sight assured Arya that it was indeed night. The tension was building up inside her and she desperately wanted to unleash the scream that clung grimly to the inside of her throat…but it was as though she couldn't make a sound.

The guard opened a door and pushed Arya none too gently into a small room. It was simple and without ornament. A steaming bath sat in the centre, tempting Arya. She had spent so long playing the grimy orphan, yet what she wouldn't give to be clean. The guard gestured towards the bath.

"Clean yourself up. I'll be back soon and when I knock, that means it's time."

Time? Time for what? Arya was beyond comprehending as the guard closed and bolted the door behind her. She immediately set about working out her escape, yet was disappointed as the door proved to be the only exit. Heaving a sigh, Arya frowned at the dress on the bed, before she peeled off her grimy clothes and surrendered to the soft warmth of the bathwater.

The scented water wafted around Arya, making her feel pleasantly warm and sleepy. She could almost forget where she was…only once she remembered, she suddenly felt the urge to slip underneath the surface of the water and never rise. She choked back a sob and forced herself to get out of the bath, drying herself and scowling as she pulled on the dress that hugged her slender frame. Arya wanted to wear her dirty clothes as an act of defiance – yet what was the cost of defiance nowadays? Her father had been defiant, and met a grisly end.

There was a sharp knock at the door and Arya lifted her chin, preparing herself for…whatever it was Joffrey wanted of her. Perhaps he'd had her dress up like a doll just so that he could order her execution. It was the sort of sadistic thing he'd enjoy. A shiver of disgust ran down Arya's spine as the guard opened the door and beckoned.

"Come. His Majesty is not to be kept waiting."

Of course not, Arya thought rather sarcastically. The guard marched her onwards, and Arya's heart hammered a frightened tempo in her chest. It was some time before they reached another door, upon which the guard now rapped his knuckles. Arya stood tense, wondering what was going to happen. That was perhaps her greatest terror – fear of the unknown. She didn't know what Joffrey wanted of her, what he might do next, and that terrified her.

It was the hated Joffrey himself who opened the door. A look of smug approval crossed his face as he saw that Arya wore the dress and she scowled, wishing she'd worn her old clothes. Joffrey inclined his head curtly to the guard.

"You may wait outside."

Joffrey's cold fingers closed around Arya's wrist and he tugged her inside, closing the door behind her and bolting it. Meanwhile, Arya was inspecting the room with a growing horror. There was no doubting that between the detailed tapestries and luxurious furniture that this was Joffrey's own room. She nearly choked on her own fear and disgust as she added it all together.

"Do you like it?" Joffrey asked, the hint of amusement colouring his tone as his cold, vacant eyes inspected the room he was all too used to. "If you consented to become my queen, you could share it with me."

Arya's temper simmered, her rage and hatred boiling dangerously close to the surface.

"I'd stab myself in the heart first."

Joffrey's lip curled into a mocking smile as his eyes raked over Arya. His gaze was invasive and unwelcome and Arya very much wanted to throw her arms over herself. The king took a step closer to Arya, too close. She could feel his hot breath on her bare neck.

"We'll see about that." Joffrey's tone was flippant, but then he became more serious. "Surely you know why I've asked you here, Arya."

Arya turned away from him. She may be a prisoner within this room, within the psychological chains Joffrey had bound her with, yet that did not mean she needed to remain in close proximity to this…monster.

"I can make assumptions. I only hope I'm wrong."

Joffrey's cruel laugh made her want to hurt him, so very badly. He moved closer again, despite her need for distance, and placed a hand on her cheek in a warped imitation of a romantic gesture. Arya's breath rattled out through her lips and she closed her eyes, forcing herself not to smack his hand away. She had to be strong. For Sansa.

"I guarantee your assumptions are correct." Joffrey was smirking as he let his hand drop, disappointed in the lack of reaction from Arya. "You know why you must do as I ask. You cannot afford to disobey me. Whatever your silly notions of rebellion, I am your king and you will do whatever pleases me."

Arya's eyes snapped up to meet his. They were sharp and burning as her lip curled with utter loathing.

"You will never be my king."

Joffrey's face tightened with anger, yet he did not make any attempt to hit her. Instead he simply examined her critically, as if he could see right through her.

"You think you are brave," Joffrey shook his head almost sadly, and immediately the anger was replaced by a malicious glitter in his eyes. "Take off your dress."

The command was crude and it shocked Arya. She had guessed at Joffrey's intentions, yet she had not expected him to be so blunt. Her shoulders stiffened and she took a step back, shaking her head. Joffrey just smiled tolerantly.

"Are you forgetting your sister, Arya? All it would take is a few words from me to the guard outside and she could be dead within the hour."

Arya shook her head fervently, refusing to believe that even Joffrey would be so cruel.

"She carries your child, possibly a son. You would never."

Joffrey's smile still lingered upon his thin lips, but his eyes were cold as ice.

"Oh, I would. You should have learned by now not to underestimate me, Arya. I always get what I want and this time it's you. So I'll say it again: take off your dress."

There was no resistance. Arya knew now that it was futile. She bit down on her lip so hard that she could taste blood. Tears blurred at her vision and her fingers managed to find the ties at the front of her dress, fumbling with them. Joffrey's smile of gleeful triumph spread like a poison across his face. Arya loathed him, with every fibre of her being.

She was shaking with fear and anger and hate. Somehow, Arya's numb fingers just could not undo the ties of her dress. Joffrey's euphoric smile faded and he frowned as he stalked across the room towards her. Why would she not obey him? Did her sister's life mean nothing to her? Perhaps he had no leverage over Arya Stark after all.

"Didn't you hear me?" he snarled at her, growing agitated now, "Or do I have to rip it off for you?"

Arya's slender frame was wracked with sobs. She couldn't do it. She would never. Despite the fact that he might kill Sansa, she felt repulsed at the thought of exposing herself to him. Joffrey, irritated by her tears, grabbed her by the shoulders, his thin fingers digging into her.

"Stop your crying," he snapped at her, effortlessly tugging the ties to her dress loose and then pulling the dress down over her shoulders. Arya quickly hugged herself to protect her modesty, while a leer crossed Joffrey's face as he inspected her. Prizes were always hard-won. If Arya had to be taken by force, so be it. It would be all the sweeter.

"There." Joffrey sounded satisfied. "That wasn't so hard, was it? Now, shut up and let's get on with it. I don't like to fuck crying girls. I've had enough of that with your sister."

Arya froze suddenly as Joffrey grabbed her wrists, attempting to pry her arms away from her body so that he could inspect her. Joffrey had unwittingly betrayed the fact that he had already harmed Sansa, perhaps not in the physical sense…but he had raped her. By his cold, dismissive words, Arya knew that he had raped her sister.

Arya moved quickly, pulling her dress up over her shoulders. Joffrey scowled in disapproval and opened his mouth to say something – but then Arya's hands had fastened around his throat and her slender fingers were tightening, crushing his windpipe and unwilling to let any air into his lungs. Now, Arya had become ruthless. She sneered at Joffrey as he staggered, his mouth open wide and his eyes huge with terror.

"You are a monster," Arya hissed at him, her grip not relenting in the slightest, "You killed my father. You raped my sister. You will _never_ have me. You will _never_ have what you want ever again. You so wanted to be king, Joffrey…and look where it's brought you."

Joffrey gagged as his face started to turn a horrible purple colour. Arya was hardly aware of what she was doing anymore. She knew that she was killing the king, that those were her hands fastened so tightly around his throat – yet it was like she couldn't make the connection. Joffrey's legs gave way and he crumpled to his knees, twitching and buckling violently before being overcome by a terrible stillness. His eyes rolled back in his hand and Arya gasped as she released him, knowing he was dead.

Yet it wasn't enough. Why should Joffrey endure such an easy death, after all the pain he'd put her family through? Incensed, Arya stalked across the room and snatched Joffrey's dagger off the dresser, crossing towards where the dead king lay immobile on the ground.

"This is for my father."

Arya brought the knife down in a swift slash across Joffrey's throat. She grimaced at the red blood that gurgled from him, yet she forced herself to remain impassive. This young man had tormented her family. She could show no remorse.

"This is for my sister."

The knife was plunged into Joffrey's heart, which was no longer beating. By now, smeared with the king's blood, Arya felt a kind of savage pleasure at the way she was degrading him – and then she felt sick at herself as she tore the knife free with a half-sob.

"This…this is for me."

Arya let the knife drop from her shaking fingers and embed itself in the centre of Joffrey's forehead. Turning away from the mess she'd created, disgusted at herself, Arya quickly tightened the ties of her dress as she found her escape: an open window across the room. She smiled grimly. All too easy. By the time the guards broke in and found their king dead, Arya would be long gone.


End file.
